Non Conventional Relationships
by Tori.Lars
Summary: This was just part of it, John thought as he ran his hand across Lestrade's chest. They needed to drink, to laugh, and to toast everything about their friend. They needed each other to heal. And this was just the next step.
1. Part One: Comfort

**A/N**: This is the longest fanfic I've written in a while - it's a work in progress, but I have it mostly planned out so hopefully it won't take long to get it up.

**Summary**: John Watson and Lestrade both lost the man they loved. They toast their friend and find comfort in each other until they both heal enough to move on. John gets married. Lestrade gets divorced. And then Sherlock returns.

**Includes**: Slash, bit of porn with plot. Post-Reichenbach. FWB!John/Lestrade, married!John/Mary, hinted queerplatonic!John/Sherlock and unrequited!Lestrade/Sherlock feelings.

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

For two weeks, Dr. John Watson avoided booze. He'd never had any problem with alcohol personally but he knew alcoholism ran in families. His sister's experience and his own depression could easily prove fatal if he gave it the chance, so he didn't. No wine. No brandy. No rum. For two weeks.

For two weeks, Dr. John Watson avoided people. Three times a week, he texted Harry, but just one text each time. Even after all she'd done, he knew she didn't deserve to think he was dead. He was still very much alive.

And everything hurt.

But after two weeks, it hurt less. Everything would probably always hurt. The pain faded a minute bit every day, and if it were to follow that pattern, he'd never be fully over it. Depressing as hell.

A few people had tried contacting him within the first few days after it happened. Mrs. Hudson called, left him voicemails asking when he wanted to come back to get his things out of the flat on Baker Street and to tell him he was always welcome – to visit or move back in. Sarah and Jeanette both called, leaving voicemails with their condolences. Even Mycroft had called, left a voicemail just to inform John that his observation status had been raised, on the chance John was thinking about doing anything stupid. Lestrade had called, just once, the day of the funeral – he hadn't left a voicemail.

That always stuck in the back of John's mind. Why hadn't he left a voicemail? He wasn't terribly concerned, but he did find it odd.

For two weeks, Dr. John Watson didn't leave his flat. Because he barely ate, he managed to make his meager food supply last an entire week - but when it had finally been exhausted, he had dared to open the front door. On his welcome mat sat cans of vegetables, a loaf of bread, a few boxes of pastas, and a jar of spaghetti sauce. A note revealed it as a gift from Mycroft Holmes – "Take your time, John." He was still furious with Mycroft, and indeed blamed him for what had happened, but damn if he hadn't almost melted at the sight of the food. Giving John a few more days of isolation had earned Mycroft slightly less hatred and while he didn't think he'd ever fully forgive him, John found himself wondering if respect for John's grief was proof that Mycroft was hurting, too.

One day, Thai food was delivered to John's flat, already paid for.

On the fifteenth day after it happened, John's phone rang. He glanced at it, with no intention of answering it but curious to see who it was. His heart leapt to his throat when he saw it was Lestrade. He thought about answering, just to see what he had to say, but it stopped ringing before he had made up his mind. He sighed. It was better that way, really. He wasn't ready to talk to anyone just yet. Closer, yes. Much closer. But not quite there.

After twenty seconds or so, his phone beeped again and suddenly he felt inexplicably nauseous. Lestrade had left a voicemail.

He stared at the phone, his heart pounding just a bit too loudly. Why was he nervous? Lestrade didn't have Mycroft's guts – he had to know how bitter John felt towards him for what he'd done and simply lacked the nerve to make contact before. It had taken him two weeks to scrape together the courage. That seemed perfectly normal. Easily explained. Didn't take a bloody genius to deduce that.

He picked up the phone and looked at it. "3 Missed Calls. 1 New Voicemail." Both the other calls were from Mrs. Hudson, earlier in the day. Biting the bullet, he checked the message.

"Hey, John, it's Greg Lestrade. I'm sorry I didn't call earlier, but I've been worried about you and I figured you were probably getting bombarded by well-wishers. I, er, I miss him. And you. Was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime soon. Get a drink or something. Or I could meet you at your flat, or you could come here. I want to see you. I know that's asking a bit, considering the part I played the last time I saw you, but I want to talk to you. About all that. I'm sorry, John. Hope you call back."

John took a deep breath as he rung off the phone and sat back in his chair. A minute before, he couldn't spare the energy to answer a damn phone call, but he suddenly wanted little more than to see Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. He typed out a text message, revised it a dozen times and ultimately decided on:

"I think I want to see you. Everything is still mostly too much. My old flat, 135 Gower St. 8pm?"

He set the phone down without sending the text and stood up. His leg hurt a little - more than it had in well over a year - but he hadn't resorted to using his cane again. He walked in a circle around the little room. Then he walked the circle again, and again. Ten rounds later, he added, "Bring booze," and sent it on its way. Then he sat down and fidgeted. He didn't have long to wait. It took less than a minute before his phone beeped.

"Thanks. See you then."

He looked hurriedly around the flat. He had three hours to clean up the place he hadn't left in fifteen days - it looked (and probably smelled) rough. He got to work, overtaken by a new sort of energy, like he'd been bottling it up for two weeks. He gathered up the dirty dishes he hadn't washed since, well, since he'd moved back. He picked up the few articles of clothing he had tried to wear before ultimately abandoning everything for his sweats, tossed them in the hamper. He stripped off his t-shirt, caught a whiff of his own smell, and almost gagged. How long had it been that bad? How could he not have noticed?

He dropped his pants and quickly got into the shower. The water hit him and he involuntarily let out a moan. Damn it felt good. He scrubbed away the grime, the dust, and stretched his arms and back in ways they hadn't been stretched in a while. He must have lost track of time - when he finally shut off the water and stepped out, an hour had passed. His jaw dropped when he saw the clock.

It took almost the full two hours for him to ready the flat and get dressed. He changed his clothes a few times, not sure why he cared so much but wanting to look nice. His face, he found, was drawn and lined. He looked like he'd aged ten years. After studying his face in the mirror for a minute, he avoided looking at it again.

He ultimately decided on jeans and a button-up shirt - decided against the jumper Sherlock used to tease him about - not ready - and stayed barefoot. As eight o'clock grew closer, he imagined not opening the door for Lestrade. Hide in a corner. Don't answer. He shook his head, no, he couldn't do that. If it turned out he couldn't open the door, which did feel like a real possibility, he would at least speak to Lestrade to explain. He had to.

Finally, too soon, finally, there was a knock on the door. It was fine. John took a deep, easy breath and opened the door.

Lestrade was holding a large brown paper bag to his chest and a take-out bag was hanging from his other hand. He lifted the take-out bag.

"Didn't know if you'd eaten," he muttered, "figured if you had, you could have this another time."

John struggled to take another breath - it felt caught in his throat. He fought the urge to close the door in his face. Instead, reluctantly, he stepped back and motioned for Lestrade to enter.

Lestrade hesitated. "You sure?" he asked.

"Yeah," said John, hoarsely. He tried to clear his throat, gone gravelly from neglect. He tried again: "Yeah, come in, please."

Lestrade nodded and stepped inside. He was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, and a leather jacket. He set the bags on the little table and shrugged off the jacket. He looked tired, John thought. Probably work had gotten a lot worse the past two weeks. And if he was fair, he knew Lestrade had been going through a decent bit of grief too.

Lestrade glanced casually around the flat and turned to John. He nodded a few times, awkwardly.

"You look good, John," he said. He didn't bother hiding the surprise in his voice.

"I can still take a shower," John muttered as he took Lestrade's coat to hang on his desk chair. "Things okay at work?"

"Bloody awful at work. Hungry?"

John considered himself as he turned to look at Lestrade. "Yeah," he said. "What'd you bring?"

They laid out plates and utensils and John got them both wine glasses and glasses of water. Lestrade set out pastas from a local Italian place down the street and gave John his choice of spaghetti or fettuccine alfredo. He put garlic bread on a plate in the middle of the table. Then he uncorked a bottle of wine he'd brought, a red wine from California whose smell hit John immediately. Lestrade poured them each a glass and they settled down to eat.

The food was delicious and they ate in silence for a while. They both knew what they'd be talking about later and the dread made it a little difficult for John to swallow - but the silence wasn't awkward. He was even enjoying having someone around.

About half-way through the meal, as Lestrade was pouring them each another glass of wine, he started to talk.

"This could be a ridiculous question," he said, "but how've you been?"

John almost smiled. He shrugged. "You're the first person I've seen or spoken to in two weeks. Mrs. Hudson is having to get updates on me from Harry because she doesn't text and I can't answer the phone, no matter how much I want to talk to her. Hope you didn't take it personally that I texted instead of calling back."

"Oh, no, I was glad to get a response at all. I was, y'know, worried you would reject me entirely." His eyes were pleading, with a touch of something else. It took a moment for John to realize it was heart-break.

John sighed softly. "You don't think he had anything to do with those kidnappings, do you?"

"God, no," Lestrade breathed. "I never did, not really. My job was on the line, once the superintendent got involved." He leaned forward on the table. "You have to know, John, I loved him. And I trusted him more than anyone."

He was begging for John to understand. John realized with a pang that he was using John as a way to get to Sherlock - getting forgiven by one was as close as he could get to being forgiven by the other.

"I know," he said softly. "I went on cases. I watched you two...interact. You knew how he worked. You did exactly what he said to do, you made everyone do exactly what he said to do, even when it made no sense at all."

Lestrade looked at him for a moment before saying, "I don't have to tell you he was brilliant."

John hesitated and then held up his wine glass. "To brilliance," he said. They clinked glasses and both drained them. Lestrade poured out more and held up his glass.

"To having a madness to his method."

They went back and forth this way, taking about three toasts per glass. Lestrade had to open another bottle of wine. The toasts became gradually more specific, more personal.

"To the times he insulted you but you knew it was really a compliment."

"To the way he laughed and looked at you, the few times you knew that he knew that you knew what he was talking about when no one else did."

"To the way he was never bothered by people thinking we were a couple."

"I'll just second that one," said Lestrade with a chuckle and he took another drink.

"What, people thought you were dating him?"

"Oh, yeah. Someone put up with him before you came 'round, you know. We were never like you, though. We were never as close as I would have wanted. He kept me at a distance. But you weren't the only one who noticed I followed him blindly. Thought it was weird, they did, this detective inspector taking orders from a young crackhead he found on the streets. Guess they thought it'd make more sense if we were shagging."

"Is that - really how you met?" John asked and he chewed on his lip, the wine making him incapable of hiding the pain in his eyes.

Lestrade looked like he regretted what he had said. "Yeah, it is. But you know I didn't think of him like that. That's how other people on the force thought of him, especially back then." He raised his glass again. "To second chances, for those who deserve them." They drained their glasses and Lestrade emptied the bottle, giving them each particularly large final drinks.

"To relationships that can't be labeled by conventional means."

"To happiness in utterly the weirdest places imaginable."

"To those - _blasted_ - cheekbones."

They both dissolved into giggles at that and when they collected themselves, they noticed they only had enough wine for one more toast.

Lestrade raised his glass. "To Sherlock Holmes," he muttered softly and John repeated it. They clinked glasses and drained them. John put his glass down on the table rather harder than necessary. Lestrade lowered his glass slowly.

John ran his hands through his hair. The room was spinning nicely and he felt good, despite himself. He reached over and covered Lestrade's hand, still holding his wine glass, with his own.

"Thanks," he said. "I needed this."

"So did I. He made life so difficult, you'd think things would be..." He didn't finish the sentence but John nodded.

John sighed and then stood up, intending to put away the rest of the food, but the alcohol rushed to his head and he stumbled heavily. Lestrade's hand shot out to grab his arm but that threw him off balance even more and he fell all the way to the floor, dragging Lestrade with him. They lay on the floor next to each other for a moment before the giggling started and then they had trouble stopping.

"S-sorry," John said when he could manage it. Lestrade waved it off, still grinning broadly. He reached out and took John's hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze. Without a thought, John rolled over and rested his head on Lestrade's chest. Lestrade wrapped his arms around him.

They relaxed like that for a minute, just listening to each other breathe. Then Lestrade placed a kiss on John's forehead. It was innocent but it made John's breath catch.

John leaned up on his elbow, his face hovering inches above Lestrade's, studying his eyes and cheeks and lips. "This is a bad idea," John muttered.

"I'm married," whispered Lestrade. He looked frightened.

A beat passed before John said, "I'm in love with Sherlock."

Two beats passed and Lestrade confessed, "So am I."

That was all it took. John slowly leaned down and brushed his lips against Lestrade's. Lestrade moaned softly and deepened the kiss, his hand finding its way to the back of John's head. Their lips opened and tongues rolled together sensually.

This was just part of it, John thought as he ran his hand across Lestrade's chest. They needed to drink, to laugh, and to toast everything about their friend. They needed each other to heal. And this was just the next step.

John's wine-addled mind first got lost somewhere when the sweet kisses turned more passionate, when clothing started coming off. He was aware of crawling on top of Lestrade, of grinding their hips together, of Lestrade's short, hot gasps in his ear. He could remember Lestrade scratching his back, too hard but not hard enough; tasting Lestrade's body, his neck, nipples, naval, cock. He remembered Lestrade flipping them over and working magic with his lips, covering John's body and finally landing on his cock which ached and which Lestrade soothed. He remembered bucking against his mouth. He remembered cumming.

The last thing he remembered was begging, pulling Lestrade's ear to his mouth and _begging_, for Lestrade to fuck him and Lestrade getting two fingers inside him, stroking his prostate. After that, his memory failed him.


	2. Experimenting

John woke up a few hours later, in his bed. His body hurt all over, no doubt from rolling around on the hardwood floor, and a particular area hurt enough to tell him plenty had happened that he didn't remember. He slowly opened his eyes and saw Lestrade getting dressed. The room was dark except for the light streaming in the window.

John licked his lips, trying to moisten his dry mouth and managed to say, "Greg."

Lestrade turned to face him and sighed. He sat on the edge of the bed. "Hey."

John tried to sit up but winced as pain shot through his back. Lestrade pushed him back down.

"Easy," he said. "I took pretty good care of that," and he laid his hand gently on John's hip.

"You're leaving," said John.

Lestrade glanced back at the door. "Yeah. Unless you want me to stay?" John couldn't tell if he sounded hopeful or not.

"Could at least stay till morning," he muttered. "You can't be completely sober yet."

For a moment, John thought Lestrade was going to kiss his lips - but he changed direction and the kiss landed on John's forehead instead. John had an awful headache and he winced again, which didn't go unnoticed.

Lestrade retrieved their glasses of water from the table and helped John sit up enough to drink.

"You got any pain pills?" Lestrade asked. "You're going to need some."

"Some in the kitchen. The bloody hell'd you do to my arse?" John asked, his words a bit slurred. He could just make out Lestrade's smile.

Lestrade leaned over him and said, "Nothing you didn't _beg_ me for, I assure you." This time he kissed John's cheek. Then he got up to refill their waters and get the medicine. John laid back down and closed his eyes. He took a few deep breaths, trying to fight the nausea he felt at the water sitting uneasily in his stomach. When Lestrade returned, John took the pills gratefully, but just sipped at the water before setting it on the floor next to the bed.

Lestrade drained his glass and set it on the table - then crawled into the twin bed behind John who rolled onto his side.

"I can stay for a few more hours," Lestrade said quietly. He wrapped his arms around John who relaxed against him. "How do you feel?"

"Ouch," John muttered. "Everything hurts."

Lestrade sighed. "Hopefully the pills will kick in while you sleep."

John was already starting to drift back to sleep. "Thank you, Greg," he said with effort. Then he was gone.

John woke up next with the sun shining in through the window. Lestrade's arms were still around him and he could hear his slow, deep breathing. He felt better. The aches throughout his body were greatly dulled and his headache was gone completely. He picked up the glass of water from the floor and drained it.

John turned slowly, easily, until he was on his back and looking at Lestrade. Lestrade was sleeping peacefully and John hated to wake him up but he was worried Lestrade might have to be at work - or get home to his wife.

"Greg," John said gently. "Greg, do you need to wake up?"

Lestrade's face scrunched up as he came to and he sensed the sunlight on his eyelids. "Time is it?" he muttered.

John glanced at the clock on his desk. "Seven-thirty."

Lestrade opened his eyes but squinted. "Yeah," he said. "Should get home for a few minutes before work, I suppose. Feel any better?"

John nodded. "Yeah. What about you?"

He nodded jerkily. "Yeah, I do." He sat up and stretched. John swung his legs out of the bed and sat for a moment to make sure his head wouldn't spin. It was fine so he pulled on his boxers from the floor, stood up, and went to the bathroom to wash his face off. When he got back, Lestrade was shrugging into his jacket.

"So," John started awkwardly. He crossed his arms over his bare chest and raised his eyebrows. Lestrade looked at him.

"Yeah," said Lestrade quietly. "Do we need to talk about this?"

John shrugged. "Probably. I mean, I'd - like to. Will you come back?"

Lestrade considered that for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, if you want. Tomorrow night okay?"

"Sure," John said, trying to hide his disappointment. He was hoping it would have been sooner. He apparently didn't succeed because Lestrade looked at him sadly and moved to touch his arms.

"It isn't that far away," he said kindly. John nodded and Lestrade pulled him into an embrace.

"I do need to know," John muttered against Lestrade's shoulder. "Did you come here last night expecting that to happen?"

Lestrade chuckled. "No."

John felt lips brush his neck softly for a moment before they closed around a spot and his skin was sucked between Lestrade's teeth. John gasped and immediately felt a stirring in his groin. His hand made its way to the back of Lestrade's head to hold him against him. Lestrade licked and sucked and bit gently at his neck and his hands drifted around John's body, rubbing his back and waist. After a minute, his hands reached down the back of John's boxers, pressing their hips together. John's eyes closed and he took a deep breath. He felt a little light-headed.

Lestrade pulled away from John's neck and kissed his lips passionately, pushing him back toward the bed. John fell back on it and Lestrade straddled him, still fully dressed. He ground their hips together for a moment and John moaned at the sensation. Lestrade kissed his way down John's body, quickly making his way to John's crotch. He massaged John's cock through the fabric of his boxers before pulling it out and stroking it a few times. John was fully hard and he bucked a little against his hand. Lestrade's lips closed around John's cock and John involuntarily gasped. He tried to bite back his voice.

Lestrade moved achingly slowly, a shocking contrast to his hurry to get there. His mouth moved down John's shaft, taking in every inch, his tongue swirling around it. John's head hit the pillow and he reached down to urge Lestrade to move faster but Lestrade batted his hand away.

"Greg, please," John breathed.

"Gimmie a minute," Lestrade muttered before taking him again in his mouth. John restrained himself, fighting his urge to thrust and scream and push Lestrade down. He laid as still as he could manage, his chest heaving and his fingers curled into the comforter on the bed. Had he had more control over the situation, he could have cum in just a few minutes, but it lasted almost fifteen. Finally, John felt himself start to rise towards a climax, and Lestrade pulled away completely.

John let out a heavy breath, surprised, and reached for his own cock, but Lestrade caught his hands and held them to the bed.

"_Fuck_," John grunted.

Lestrade moved up to look into his eyes. He kissed John's cheek, forehead, chin. Then he whispered into his ear, "Do you want to cum?"

John almost hissed at him. "Of course, I bloody want to," he groaned. "I thought you were in a hurry?"

"I'm keeping an eye on my time," Lestrade said easily. "Relax, John." He kissed his face again and again, avoiding his lips and ears, until John got more control over his breathing. Then he moved back down to John's cock, breathed on it until it was fully hard again, and took it in his mouth, moving quickly, holding the base firmly. It took only a few seconds and John's vision blacked out as he came. He bit his lip to keep from yelling out and thrust against Lestrade's mouth. Lestrade swallowed his cum, milked him for a moment before moving to sit on the side of the bed.

"My god," John moaned, "you're good at that. Do it often?"

Lestrade pulled on his shoes and shrugged, smiling. "Now and then, yeah."

John sat up next to him and reached for his crotch, rubbed his hard cock through his pants. Lestrade's eyelids fluttered for a moment but then he shook his head and stood up. "I do need to get going. But I'll be back tomorrow, yeah?"

"Then I'm in your debt," John said.

"You okay with that?"

John considered it for a moment before nodding. Lestrade smiled softly and leaned down to kiss his lips. "I won't be gone long," he said against his lips. "Try to have a good day, John." He kissed him again and, with a few glances back, left the flat.

John stayed on the bed for well over an hour, not sleeping. Just thinking. He'd had sex with a man a few years back, a one-night stand that he'd regretted sorely. He was very attracted to women, their smiles and bodies and personalities and laughs. He loved kissing women. He loved shagging with women. He loved their breasts, their hips, the way they tasted and moaned and moved when he went down on them, which he loved by itself. He loved talking to women, listening to what they had to say, learning from them, creating relationships with them.

He'd never put any real thought into his feelings for men, which were in general so rare, until Sherlock Holmes came along and made him reconsider a bit. Not much, because he'd never felt that Sherlock was interested in him or anyone else in that way, and the feelings had been largely romantic, not sexual, anyway. He'd been mostly satisfied with their relationship, the easy but deep intimacy.

But then Sherlock had jumped off the hospital roof and messed all that up.

And what about Greg Lestrade? John had never been attracted to him before. He'd barely considered him a friend at the best of times. But last night and that morning had been amazing and John felt his pulse quicken thinking about it. Lestrade was an attractive man - intelligent, hard-working, and very kind. He was handsome, funny, easy to get on with. Determined. Confident. He'd been Sherlock's friend.

Was John falling in love?

Surely not. But it felt like it. He smiled at the thought of seeing Lestrade again - smiling being something he hadn't done at all in the past two weeks. So what did it mean? And what did he want? Could he even handle being in a relationship with a man, deciding who to tell, how to come out, all that drama?

When his head started to hurt again, John got up and had a bowl of oatmeal. He took a shower and spent half an hour staring at his phone, daring himself to call Mrs. Hudson and talk to her. He eventually gave up.

Time got away from him and soon it was one o'clock in the afternoon and his phone beeped - he had a text message from Lestrade: "Are you busy?"

He quickly sent back, "No," and stared at the phone. Why was he asking?

He barely had time to consider it when there was a knock at his door. He jumped and quickly checked himself to see how he looked. He was clean and dressed with no time to change, so he opened the door with a little trepidation. Lestrade stood there with a bag from a sandwich shop.

"Hey," he said. He lifted the bag. "Had lunch yet?"

John stood back to let him in and he set the bag on the table. John shut the door. As Lestrade turned around, John threw his arms around him and kissed him. Lestrade gasped before returning the kiss and holding him tightly.

After a few seconds, John pulled away. "It isn't tomorrow night," he said.

"I couldn't wait that long," Lestrade answered and pecked him on the lips. "I only have about half an hour before I have to get back to work. It's my lunch break. But I wanted to see you. Hope that's alright."

John put his hand on Lestrade's neck. "'Course it is."

"Brought you a sandwich."

"Thank you."

They sat down and John suddenly felt awkward. He wanted to keep touching Lestrade, but he didn't want to push it. Then Lestrade moved his chair around the table so that they were sitting next to each other and Lestrade put his arm briefly around John's shoulders. John took a deep breath and the awkwardness dissipated. They ate turkey sub sandwiches without saying much, but every couple of bites, Lestrade would lean over and kiss John's lips or cheek.

John was only able to eat about half of his sub, so he wrapped it back up and moved it to the fridge. Lestrade wrapped his and set it aside, saying he would take it back to work. Then John stood in front of him, leaned over, and started kissing his neck. Lestrade's head fell back to allow him better access and he let out a small moan. He stretched back in his chair and John sank to his knees between Lestrade's feet. He rubbed Lestrade's crotch and listened as Lestrade's breathing hitched.

"Just a warning," John said gently, "I don't have a lot of experience with this."

Lestrade looked down at him. "I don't want you to do anything you're not comfortable with. Y'know, I don't really think of you as being in my debt."

John grinned up at him as he unzipped Lestrade's trousers. He hesitated for just a moment as he pulled out Lestrade's partial erection and started stroking it, watching it grow. Lestrade's eyes fluttered closed and he started massaging the back of John's neck, gently urging him on. John licked up Lestrade's cock, closed his lips around it, swirled his tongue around on the head. Lestrade's breathing turned heavier and he ran his hand over John's hair as John's head bobbed up and down, taking in as much of his cock as he could. He was tempted to move tortuously slowly, get revenge on Lestrade for that morning, but he knew Lestrade needed to get back to work. He squeezed the base of his cock with his hand, massaged it and stroked it quickly.

"Good god, you're beautiful," Lestrade breathed, looking down at him, watching as he worked on his cock. His hips moved in a way that suggested he was fighting the urge to thrust into John's mouth and John sped up. It only took a few minutes before Lestrade's whole body tensed up and he came with a strained moan. John swallowed his cum and sat back, wiping his mouth. Lestrade laid back in the chair, panting.

John stood up and Lestrade grinned at him. "Not much experience, but you're pretty damn good," he muttered with a chuckle.

John smiled back shyly and glanced at the floor. "Not in your debt anymore. Will you still come back tomorrow?"

Lestrade stood and did up his pants. "Yeah, of course. We can, er, talk tomorrow." He waved his hand between them. "About what this is. If you want."

John nodded. "Okay then. Good."

Lestrade picked up what was left of his sandwich but didn't move towards the door. He glanced at John again. There was a pause before he said, "I have to get back to work, but... I don't want to leave. Just wanted you to know, I wish I could stay here."

John sighed softly and felt his eyes start to burn. "Thank you - for saying that," he muttered.

Lestrade nodded, kissed John on the cheek, and left the flat.


	3. The Talk

**A/N**: Bit shorter, this chapter. They're just discussing their relationship, what they want, etc. No sex scene here, sorry. Hope you enjoy anyway.

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

The next night, around 10 o'clock, John collapsed on top of Lestrade in John's small bed. They were both breathing heavily and were covered in sweat. John placed his ear over Lestrade's heart and listened as his pulse gradually slowed to normal. He noticed Lestrade's breathing, too - it slowed and passed below normal waking breathing. John looked up at his face with a small grin and saw that Lestrade's eyes were closed.

"Maybe we should have waited to do that after we talked," John said softly. Lestrade's eyes opened.

"Maybe," he said.

"Are you too tired to talk now?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No. But I will need to sit up or I'll fall asleep."

Reluctantly, John moved so they could both sit on the bed.

"Alright," said Lestrade as he adjusted himself carefully on top of the blanket. "What do you think, then?"

John's mind went blank immediately. He rapidly tried to think through everything he'd planned to say, everything he'd decided, but he couldn't figure out where to start. "I'm sorry," he finally said. "That's a bit too vague for me."

"Simpler, then," said Lestrade with a gentle smile. "What do you want from this relationship?"

John nodded. He'd practiced this one. "I am not sure," he said confidently. "I know I don't want this to end. I don't know if I want more, like dating. I might, but I might also be happy just with the dinners here and the shagging."

"But you do want to keep shagging?"

"Very much."

"Very well."

"How about you?"

"I definitely like the shagging. I don't want to date you, though." He said it simply and John knew it was silly, but that hurt a bit.

"Why not?"

Lestrade looked at him curiously. "John," he started and John briefly noted that he loved the way his name sounded from those lips, "you aren't attracted to me. Not really."

John felt confused. "D'you mean? Did I not prove that to you a few minutes ago?"

"Sure, you feel attracted to me _now. _But if I'd asked you on a date a month ago, what would you have said?"

John glanced away for a moment. "No," he admitted.

"The other night... we were drunk. We were grieving. Lonely. We turned to each other as a desperate resort and discovered that it helped. It felt good. But that isn't the same as real attraction."

"What do you suggest, then?"

"Just what it is. A way to cope. We come to each other when we need help, and when we don't anymore, we accept that it's over."

John took a deep breath. That seemed a little harsh and he didn't like the sound of it. "What if real attraction develops? Feelings change and all. What if I -" He broke off abruptly, not wanting to say something that would make everything worse.

Lestrade was watching him carefully. "We can cross that bridge if we ever get to it," he answered with a shrug. "Either way, I'm sorry, but we can't - go public."

John was confused for a moment before he understood. "Right," he said. "Married."

"Married."

John stared at the floor. "What did you tell her - your wife? About the other night when you didn't come home?"

"The truth. Well, mostly. Told her I came over here to talk to you, we ended up drinking, and I couldn't drive home."

"She didn't question that? Even though you didn't call?"

Lestrade sighed and suddenly looked a new kind of tired. "Neither one of us asks a lot of questions anymore," he said sadly.

John bit his lip. "Sorry," he said hurriedly. "It's - it's not my business." He suddenly remembered something Lestrade had said the day before about occasionally giving blow-jobs. "Speaking of things that aren't my business," he said quietly after a pause, "are you gay?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No. I love my wife. We have our problems, like any couple, and I sometimes seek out men to, well, cope. But I do love her, and women in general." He paused. "What about you? I've heard you say you aren't gay, but that could just be a cover."

"I'm not. Never feel much for men, generally speaking. Sherlock was something else. So are you."

But Lestrade shook his head. "We've been over this already," he said with a kind smile. "You aren't attracted to me. There's nothing special about me except that I needed you as much as you needed me."

"That makes it sound so selfish."

Lestrade laughed. "It was selfish. It _is_ selfish. You used me so you would feel better. I used you so I would feel better. Nine times out of ten, that's what sex is - two people being selfish in a mutually beneficial way."

John stared at him. "You really know how to kill romantic notions, don't you?"

"I'm just being honest, John. I like you. But even if we had gone on a date a month ago, fallen madly in love, and waited to have sex until our wedding night, the sex would have been selfish. Just the way it is. We can tell the truth now or we can try to hide it away, act like it isn't there, like sex is something beyond that basic human id, until it comes back to bite us. I've made that mistake before. I don't plan to make it again."

John let that sink in for a moment and realized he agreed.

"So, we keep shagging... until one of us feels like he can deal with life again the way he's suppose to?"

"Well, until _you_ feel like you can deal with life again. I'm a care-taker. I have to take care of people. I feel unfulfilled if I have no one who needs me, and I feel guilty if I know I'm not helping someone who needs me. Even when I've healed, which will probably be before you have -"

"Undoubtedly."

"- I will still want to help you."

John snorted. "How is that selfish?"

"I just told you, didn't I? I don't want to feel guilty."

They were quiet for a few seconds. Then John put his arm around Lestrade's shoulders and kissed him. It was a soft kiss, gentle, loving. He held it longer than he'd intended, trying to work up the courage to say what he wanted to say.

"A flaw in your plan," John finally whispered against his lips, and he could feel color rising in his cheeks. He kept his eyes closed. "What if I'm already in love with you?"

Lestrade took a shaky breath. "That'll pass," he whispered back. "It's normal to feel a rush of emotions at the beginning of a relationship. I'd say especially in this case. That doesn't make it real."

"But if it feels real?"

"John."

"What if it would - help me to say it?"

Lestrade pressed another kiss to his lips. "Do what feels best. If you want to say it, say it. But I don't want you to get your heart broken by me. I want you to understand why you're feeling this way and that it won't last long."

John finally opened his eyes and locked his gaze with Lestrade's. Lestrade looked nervous, almost afraid.

"You feel it too," said John.

"Of course I do," he answered. "But this is complicated no matter how you look at it. My idea for how this will work, shag until we're better and move on, is simple as hell in theory but I know it won't be in practice. And I worry about making it worse. Harder to leave you, before the relationship gets toxic. Saying that will make everything more difficult in the long run."

"How do you know it'll eventually be toxic?" asked John, confused.

"Because you will fully realize what I say is true, you will come to notice you aren't attracted to me, and we will grow to resent each other. If we tell each other lies about being together forever, being happy forever, it will end badly."

John hesitated. "I know you're hurt because of your marriage," he said slowly, carefully, "but some people are genuinely happy for life."

"Those people are attracted to each other," said Lestrade with another sad smile.

"I love you."

"I love you t -" Lestrade's voice gave out on the last word and he struggled to draw another breath. John had caught him by surprise and he clearly hadn't intended or wanted to say it back. After a few seconds, he pulled himself together. "Did that help you? Saying it?"

John couldn't tell much by his tone. He nodded and smiled slightly. "Yeah. It felt nice. Wonderful, actually. Even if it isn't _real_ or going to last, I - I love you. Here and now, and that's what matters to me at this point." He paused. "This relationship is going to be about what we need at the moment, right? Not necessarily in the future. We can shag when we want and I'll say I love you when I feel it. If that's okay?"

"When you put it like that, yeah," said Lestrade with a small laugh. "I might - well, I might put too much emphasis on love lasting forever. I forget love exists in other forms."

"We would both do well to remember that." John kissed him again. "Any other questions or comments?"

"One more," said Lestrade. "Just to be perfectly clear. We aren't dating and we obviously aren't any kind of exclusive, so if you want to pursue a relationship with someone else, you don't need my permission. The point of this all is to be happy, so you should strive for that, especially if it's with someone else, y'know? Something possibly more permanent. I'm not going to hold you back."

"Thank you. I think that's a long way off, but thank you."

Lestrade put his hand on John's thigh and squeezed. "How are you feeling?"

John nodded. "I feel good. Better than I have in a while, certainly."

Lestrade smiled. "Good."


	4. The End

**A/N**: I probably should have combined this chapter with the last one, really, they're both so short. Anyway, this is NOT the last chapter - it's the end of Part 1 of the story. Part 2 (with Sherlock's return) will be coming soon. I hope you enjoy, and also, I like reviews. Hugs.

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

**Eight months later.**

"Meet me at my office, 7pm?"

John stared sadly at the text for a few seconds. He was suspicious, thinking he probably knew what Lestrade wanted to talk about. It had been a long time coming, but...

"Yes," he texted back.

He had last seen Lestrade a week before. They'd gone out to dinner, something they'd only done a total of five times, and they hadn't even shagged afterward. They were drifting apart. Which was good – it meant they were healing – but John couldn't stop the dull ache in his chest whenever he thought about breaking the relationship off completely.

He still thought about Sherlock every day, but it wasn't nearly as painful as it had been. Sometimes, thinking about him didn't hurt at all. When Sherlock stole the ashtray from Buckingham Palace was the easiest memory, for some reason. It even made him smile, sometimes.

He left the flat just about every day. He went to work, he went to therapy, he went out with his sister who seemed to really be off the booze this time. He even went on a few dates, though none of them had turned into anything. He talked to Mrs. Hudson every day, sometimes for less than a minute and sometimes for over an hour, but he hadn't been back to Baker Street. Lestrade had gone there for him, a few months before, to get most of his things.

"You can get the rest yourself when you're ready," Lestrade had said. "Going back would probably help."

Mrs. Hudson said she didn't mind keeping the flat the way it was for a while – sometimes she liked to go up there and dust to help her relax after a long day. It comforted her.

At 6:30, John left his flat. It was a little over a mile to Lestrade's office, and it took John precisely thirty minutes to walk there. The building was almost empty, most people having left at five o'clock, but Lestrade was pulling overtime, as usual. John nodded at the few people he passed and knocked on Lestrade's door.

"Come in!"

John entered and closed the door behind him. Lestrade was straightening up the papers that covered his desk. He glanced up and gave a small smile before continuing to sort the papers into neat piles.

John sat in the chair in front of his desk and waited patiently. After a minute or so, Lestrade seemed satisfied. He walked around the desk and leaned back against it, looking at John.

"How are you, John?" he asked.

John nodded. "Good. I'm fine, you?"

"I'm alright. No use beating around the bush, then, I suppose. You know why I wanted to talk to you?"

"I could guess."

Lestrade sighed. "What do you think, then?"

They stared at each other for a moment before John looked away. "I don't know. Greg, I know this was the plan all along, but..."

"But that doesn't make it easy, I know." He sounded so somber, John looked at him again. His appearance hadn't changed much – a few more lines around his eyes, maybe, a shock of gray hair that used to be dark – but where his body used to excite John, turn him on, now it seemed fairly neutral. And realizing that hurt.

"I know it's for the best," John said softly.

"Our relationship's done what we wanted it to do," said Lestrade, a hint of resignation in his voice. "I think we've helped each other about as much as we can. We've reached our...limit. Any longer, and we'll start going backwards."

John bit his lip. "I think you're right. But bloody hell, I hate it." His eyes started to burn and he blinked rapidly a few times. He wanted to be in love with Lestrade. He wanted that exciting, passionate feeling from months ago, when they couldn't get enough of each other. He didn't want to leave the office completely single. It was a scary thought.

But they'd been headed that way for a while. It had been over two months since the last time John told Lestrade he loved him. And Lestrade, who had always immediately said it back, hadn't. That last time, he hadn't replied in kind. They had gradually gone from seeing each other four to six times a week, to twice a week, to once a week – sometimes only once every two weeks.

It was time.

A tear escaped and slid down John's face. He quickly wiped it away, but Lestrade saw it and sighed.

"Why don't we give it a week or so, yeah?" he asked. "See where we are then."

John nodded. "Okay. Sounds good. I'll talk to you in a week, then." He stood up and turned to go.

"You can call me whenever, John," Lestrade said, concerned, and John stopped. "When I say we've reached our limit, I'm just talking about shagging. I'm still your friend and I still want to know if you're going through a hard time. I want to help you in any way I can, so if you want to call before a week has passed, I hope you will."

"Thanks," John muttered. He walked back to the desk and pulled Lestrade into an embrace. It was comfortable, relaxed, familiar. Whatever else about their physical relationship had changed, he still loved being in Lestrade's arms. Without really thinking about it, John pressed his lips to Lestrade's neck.

Lestrade melted against him, his defenses falling. They held on to each other tighter than they had in weeks, rocked against each other, kissed and tore off clothing. Lestrade took him on top of the desk, not caring when a stack of papers hit the floor, just thrusting and gasping and swearing under his breath. His hand was on John's shoulder, squeezing too hard and not hard enough, his other hand pumping John's cock perfectly, practiced. After twenty minutes, they climaxed simultaneously and collapsed on the desk, panting. Lestrade kissed John's shoulder where he had gripped tightly and stood up.

Lestrade pulled his pants back on, still breathing heavily. "Want me to take you home?" he asked. John shook his head.

"I'll walk," he said. After a moment, still lying on the desk, he added, "If I can." They both chuckled and he gingerly stood up. They finished getting dressed in silence and then Lestrade walked with him to his door.

"Call or text me anytime," Lestrade said again.

John nodded and cleared his throat. "Thank you, for everything. I can't say how much this relationship has meant to me," said John, "but I think you understand."

Lestrade kissed his cheek, his lips lingering there longer than usual and John just knew it would be their last kiss.

They didn't talk at all for a week, but then John called him to say he was okay.

And he really was.


	5. Part Two: Sherlock Returns

**A/N**: Thanks for sticking with me this long, folks. (Extra special thank you to seikoxxx and MT for the reviews so far, I really appreciate them!) I rather like this chapter and I hope you do too. We've jumped ahead a bit - John gets married, Lestrade gets divorced, and Sherlock returns. We get through all of that in this chapter, so I hope it doesn't feel too rushed-over. Reviews are nice and tend to make me smile, hint hint.

Also, before anyone tries to say that Mary feels too, well, Mary-Sueish, just don't. In the books, John is crazy madly in love with her and pretty much thinks she's perfect, so, there. That's what I was going for.

* * *

><p><strong>Part Two<strong>

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

Two years after Sherlock's death, John accompanied his sister to an Alcoholics' Anonymous meeting, where Harry picked up a 1 Year Sober key tag. He clapped along with everyone else and hugged her when she got back to her seat. After the meeting, Harry introduced him to some of her support group, all women, most of them queer. They ranged in their sobriety time from two months to over eighteen years.

One woman, Mary Morstan, was a few years younger than John and had been sober three years. She was easily the most beautiful woman John had ever seen and once they left, John bugged Harry for details about her. She was single and, as far as Harry knew, heterosexual. She was a fairly new member to Harry's group, so she didn't know a lot about her. Harry refused to give John Mary's number, but promised to pass his on to her, with a strict reminder that if they did go out, John should under no circumstances tempt Mary with alcohol like he did with most of his other dates.

Mary called him a few days later and John slipped up and automatically asked her if she would like to go out for a drink. He realized his mistake immediately and fumbled over his words, but she laughed and agreed to meet him for lunch.

At the café, she assured him that she was doing very well in her recovery and she wouldn't be offended if he wanted to have a drink – though she didn't tolerate being around drunk people (aside from those who were trying to stop drinking and relapsed, if she could be of any assistance). They talked easily, comfortably, and on their third date, he told her about Sherlock. She listened intently and patted his arm when he got a little choked up.

Poor relationships with men had contributed greatly to her drinking problem, so she said early on that they couldn't have sex for a while. She said she would understand if John went elsewhere to have his sexual desires met, and while John found that very tempting at times, he didn't do it. After another few dates, John told her about his history, all the relationships he'd been in and the one-night stands. He saved Lestrade's story for the next date, not able to work up the courage to include him the first time. Mary said it sounded like they had a beautiful relationship most people weren't able to pull off, and she wasn't bothered by any of it.

They fell in love quickly, but it was four months before they had sex. Completely swept off his feet, John proposed and they were married six months after meeting. Lestrade and Harry both stood by John as he took his vows and Mary stood with her sponsor and sister from AA. Mrs. Hudson made the wedding cake.

And John was happy.

There were still moments, of course, when memories of Sherlock would surge and he'd cry. They happened less frequently all the time. Sometimes, Mary would be overtaken by her own memories of abuse and assault and relapses, and she would cry. Neither one was embarrassed, and the one not suffering from an attack would just hold the other one until the shaking stopped. Once married, they made love a few times a day, always wanting to be close to each other.

They went to AA meetings, though John never sought treatment himself. Between John, Mary, and Harry, they agreed that he didn't have a problem, so he still occasionally would have a drink with Mike Stamford, out with his colleagues, or Lestrade. But the AA meetings did help him - they always talked about regrets, resentments, and letting them go. He never spoke up in the regular meetings, but surrounded only by Mary's support group and their families, he sometimes found himself talking about Sherlock - and Mycroft. They encouraged him to forgive both of them, and himself, because anger wouldn't do anything to change the past.

Lestrade and John talked a few times every month. When Lestrade finally went through his divorce, two months into John's marriage, John was his shoulder to cry on. That was the darkest time they'd been through in a while, and they drank together. They kissed that night, but nothing else - Lestrade had too much and eventually passed out in John's arms. John had to wake him every few hours to hydrate.

John regretfully told Mary what had happened the next day, expecting a fight or tears, but she had just smiled sadly. "What you have with him is novel," she'd said. "While I don't agree with the drinking, I'm glad you were willing to help your friend when he needed you."

And that was all that was said on the matter.

Lestrade had apologized profusely to him, but John told him what Mary had said and they talked about how bloody lucky John was to have an impossibly perfect woman.

After six months of marriage, John got a call from Mycroft Holmes. He stood, shocked and confused, with the phone to his ear in his living room.

"Dr. Watson," said Mycroft's slow voice, calmly, "it has been a while."

"Er, yes. I suppose it has."

"There is a matter I need to discuss with you. Will you meet me at Baker Street tonight?"

"Bit out of your style, this asking me to be somewhere instead of kidnapping me, isn't it?"

"This must be your choice, John."

John felt a chill go down his back. "What's this about?"

"Nine o'clock, at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson is away, the door will be unlocked." The call was disconnected.

John stared at the phone for a moment before calling Lestrade. He quickly explained what had happened.

"Yeah, that's weird, even for him," said Lestrade. "Are you going to go?"

"Well, it's got to be important, hasn't it? I haven't heard from him in years. You still see him occasionally?"

"Yeah, now and then. Saw him last week, now that you mention it. Didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary, but you can never tell with him."

"Guess I'll find out tonight, then."

"You said nine o'clock? I'll be at your flat at eight-thirty. I don't think Mycroft would do anything to put you at risk, considering everything that's happened, but it's too suspicious for me to let you go alone."

"Thanks."

"Is Mary there?"

"No, she's working tonight."

"Are you going to tell her about this?"

"Not now. Don't want to worry her. I'll wait and see what it's about first."

So at nine o'clock, John and Lestrade arrived outside 221B Baker Street and just as John reached for the handle, Lestrade's phone rang. They both stopped and waited outside as he answered.

"Inspector Lestrade... What do you mean? Why should I do that?" He sounded angry and John looked around, alarmed. "Y'can't just – no... Fine. But I'm going inside." And he rung off without giving the caller time to say another word. "Mycroft," he explained. "Says I'm not to go upstairs with you. He didn't want me to go inside at all, but you aren't going in there completely alone, I don't bloody care who he is."

John felt another chill and was a little afraid. This was very weird – but his annoyance (and, if he was honest, curiosity) overpowered the fear and he grabbed for the door handle.

John had been to his old apartment a few times in the last few years. He had moved all of his things out and visited Mrs. Hudson occasionally. She had told him that Mycroft was paying to keep the apartment and had left all of Sherlock's things there – why, John was unable to guess; sentiment seemed unlikely. But he hadn't questioned it, wanting nothing to do with Mycroft at the time.

To be honest, he still wanted nothing to do with him. But he left Lestrade at the bottom of the stairs and went up to his old living room. He opened the door and flipped on the light as he stepped inside.

He didn't see Mycroft. He only had a moment to revel in the eeriness that always accompanied the flat before the door closed behind him and he whipped around. He stared for a few seconds at Sherlock, standing next to the door with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets, his face thinner and more lined than it had been, but very much alive. John felt his stomach drop, his mind went blank, and then he fainted.

He had no idea how long he was out. When he came to, he was on the sofa and Sherlock was leaning over him, dabbing at his face with a damp cloth. He wore a tortured expression, but sighed with relief when he saw John's eyes were open. John stared at him again before quickly sitting up – his head spun and he fell back down. Sherlock's hand landed on his shoulder.

"Careful, John," he said, and tears sprang to John's eyes at the sound of his voice. "You know how dangerous fainting can be, you need to try to relax."

John tried to speak but couldn't manage to make a sound. He forced himself to breathe slowly, refusing to look away from the face he'd been sure he would never see again. Finally, he tried again to sit up, moving slowly. He noticed his feet were propped up on some pillows but he moved them to the floor and sat properly. Sherlock stood up straight and tossed the cool cloth to the table. Neither of them spoke.

Gradually, John's head cleared of fog and feelings of anger, of resentments came surging to the surface. Everything AA had taught him to let go because they wouldn't bring Sherlock back – what useless lessons those now seemed. He had fallen apart because of this man. He was broken irreparably because of this man. This man had lied to him in the most terrible way, abandoned him to grief and guilt, utter heartbreak.

And he was _alive_?

He'd waited three years - just long enough for John to move on. And now he was back to mess everything up, the happy life John finally had was going to be ruined by Sherlock bloody Holmes _again_.

John stood up without another thought, his heart pounding too hard, unable to feel his fingers which he clenched tightly into fists. Sherlock took a step backwards, but too late. John's punch landed on Sherlock's temple, knocking him over. John fell on top of him, pounding every bit of him he could reach and they struggled on the floor, Sherlock not fighting back but trying to get away. Sherlock's long arm flung out and knocked over a chair.

"John?" they heard Lestrade call from downstairs. John heard him running up the stairs and then he was being lifted through the air, dragged backwards, set on his feet. Lestrade's arms were around his waist and the three men said nothing but were all breathing heavily.

John's gaze was set on Sherlock, who was looking back at him from the floor. A bruise was already rising on Sherlock's eye and his lip was bleeding. The spell was finally broken when Lestrade said, "Sherlock?" His voice was curious, confused, but not angry, and John looked around at him, surprised.

Lestrade slowly let go of John, walked to Sherlock, and helped him up. They looked into each other's eyes for a moment before embracing tightly and John felt like he'd been stabbed through the heart. He was jealous of one of them, both of them, and how dare Lestrade not be _angry as hell_? Sherlock deserved to be attacked, punished, not enveloped by the arms that had provided John's only safe place when he needed it more than anything. Those were arms that had helped heal the heart Sherlock destroyed, the arms that held him when Sherlock abandoned him, and now they would never be comforting again, and how could Lestrade _betray him too_?

Sherlock's eyes had closed and his bloody face was buried in Lestrade's shoulder for a few seconds but then he shifted to look at John again. John shook his head, no, acceptance and forgiveness from Lestrade wasn't going to change his mind. It would take so much more than that. After a moment, John noticed that Lestrade was crying.

The two men broke apart and Lestrade said, "How? Sher, _how_? What's going on?"

"It was a trick," Sherlock said quietly, glancing back to look at Lestrade. "Three years ago, Moriarty was going to have you – both of you – killed. Unless I died. It had to be convincing. John, I'm sorry. You had to believe I was dead. If you believed it, everyone would." He was pleading, Sherlock Holmes was pleading, desperate for John to understand.

"It's been _three years_," John snarled.

"If you never want to see me again, I'll leave you alone," Sherlock said, still looking only at John. "But you're safe now, we've got rid of all of Moriarty's men, so I don't have to keep lying to you. And you deserved to know the truth."

"Go to hell!" John shouted. He wanted to keep fighting, work off his rage, but he knew he wouldn't be able to hit Lestrade, not with tears already in his eyes – and he knew Lestrade would stand between him and Sherlock.

With a final glare at both of them, he stormed out.


	6. Mary's Thoughts

**A/N**: This chapter is cheating. I just took a one-shot story I wrote ("He's Alive") and tweaked it a bit. The POV is wonky, but you'll just have to enjoy it anyway!

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

John stumbled to the door of his flat. He had to try the key a few times before he could make it fit and twist the way it was supposed to. The door flew open and he stepped inside in a daze. It took more patience to get his key back out of the lock and close the door without slamming it. He made it to the living room, where Mary sat by the fire reading a book. Then he stopped.

She looked up at him and smiled, but that was quickly replaced by a look of concern. She set her book to the side and stood up.

"John?"

He reached out to her and she immediately landed in his arms. He squeezed her, probably a bit too hard, and finally broke down.

She didn't say anything. She just held him while he cried, gently smoothing back his hair. She squeezed him back, waiting patiently for him to collect himself.

He finally did, after two minutes without speaking. He straightened up, wiped his face, and sat on the sofa. She sat next to him and wrapped her arm around his shoulders.

"What's going on?" she asked softly. He hated the sadness, the resignation in her voice – why did he have to be so broken?

"It's... Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes," he spat out furiously.

Mary didn't flinch. "What's he done now?" she asked.

John wouldn't look at her. He stared away from her, into the fire that cracked merrily in the fireplace. Finally, he forced himself to say it:

"He's alive." It came out breathy and low and his voice cracked.

"Sorry?" she asked, sure she had misheard.

"He's alive," he repeated, clearer this time. "He's alive, he's alive, he is alive..." He seemed unable to stop saying it, so she touched his face and turned him to look at her. Tears were falling and as soon as his eyes met hers, he closed them and scrunched up his face, trying to stop crying. She pushed his face against her shoulder and rubbed his back – she wanted to comfort him but she was horrified. Alive? Her heart was pounding and she glanced quickly around the room as though expecting to see Sherlock Holmes standing in a corner, watching them.

"How – how can he be alive?" she asked, hoping her voice sounded calmer than she felt.

"I don't know," he said and he took a very shaky breath. "Mycroft called me today, asking me to go to my old flat at Baker Street."

"You didn't go alone?"

"No, Lestrade went with me. He waited downstairs in case it was some kind of attack. He was there. Sherlock. He was in the flat when I got there."

Mary closed her eyes, willing her own tears not to fall. "What did you do?"

John hesitated. "I beat the hell out of him."

Mary started and had to catch herself from letting out a horrified laugh. "You hit him?"

"Lestrade heard us and ran upstairs, had to pull me off him." John leaned back against the sofa, breathing deeply. He took Mary's hand. "Three years," he whispered, finally looking into her eyes. "It's been three years I've grieved for that man. I've missed him, I've cried over him countless times. I've been through hell because I thought he was dead, and now here he is, after _three years_, and he comes back into my life like it's nothing. I was just starting to get better. I have you now, we're happy, we have a nice flat, I'm not in therapy anymore, I'm moving on, and it turns out he was never dead at all."

Before she could say anything to that, his mobile phone started to ring. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at it.

"It's Lestrade," he said bitterly. "He's called a hundred times, I'm not answering."

Mary took the phone from him gently and stood up. She answered. "Greg?"

Lestrade let out a heavy breath. "Mary, thank god, is John there?"

"Yes."

"I've been worried sick. I was just going to try your number if he didn't answer this time." He paused for a beat. "He told you what happened?"

"Yes, he did."

"Is he okay? I mean, considering."

She looked at him, slouching on the sofa, all of a broken soul. "Yes. Considering."

"Look, I'm not trying to rush him, but please tell him to call me sometime. I do know what he's going through."

"I will."

"Thank you, Mary. I'm sorry he's having to go through this, and you too."

"So am I. Thanks for calling, Greg." They said good-byes and rung off. She put the phone in her own pocket and sat down again.

"What'd he say?"

"He wanted to know if you were alright and he wants you to call him when you're ready. He thinks it would be good for you two to talk about this, since he understands what –"

John snorted. "He understands? D'you know what he did when he saw Sherlock? He hugged him. I beat the hell out of him, Lestrade picked him up from the floor and hugged him."

She put her hand on John's arm. "The reactions were different, but you know he's hurting from this too. He has to be. He's grieved too. Sherlock left him too." John looked angrily at the floor but Mary knew the anger wasn't directed at her. She leaned against him and wrapped both arms around his shoulders. He relaxed into her embrace. "Did he say – anything? About how he faked his death? Or why?"

John took a deep breath and snaked an arm around her waist. He nuzzled his face against her neck. She was warm and comforting and being so close to her helped melt away the bitterness he felt. His mind felt a little fuzzy still and it took a few seconds of thinking before he could remember the answer to her question.

"I was going to die," he said. "Moriarty was going to kill me – and Lestrade – unless Sherlock died. I dunno, something like that."

"So... he was protecting you," she said softly. John was silent at that.

Mary settled back and stroked his hair, preparing to embrace as long as John wanted. It was almost twenty minutes before John spoke again – Mary had been about to drift off into sleep.

"I don't know what to do, Mary," he said. She forced her eyes open, tiredly. "He said he would understand if I didn't want to see him again, he'd leave me alone forever. I know, I get it, that he was given an impossible choice and I shouldn't blame him for it. And he's probably not been exactly happy the past three years. But I don't... I don't think I can even look at him again... without hurting. It hurt so badly to see him today. Would it kill me a little bit inside, every time I saw him?"

"Would it kill you a little bit inside, every day you knew he was alive and you _didn't_ see him?" She kissed his forehead. "There's no easy answer, love. It comes down to... which way would help you heal?"

"I just don't know. I don't know. I don't want – to go backwards. But everything's so different now."

"Of course it is," she said gently. "You've changed. Your situation has changed. When you met, you were both bachelors who needed a place to live."

"Technically, he was married to his work."

Mary smiled. Joking was certainly progress. "Well, now you're married too. And you don't need a flat mate. Maybe you could try a more _normal_ relationship? One that isn't as all-encompassing and draining as the one you used to have. You could just be – friends."

"I don't know if that's possible," John muttered.

"You can think on it. It isn't like he needs an answer tomorrow."

John sat up and looked at her. His eyes had a scary defeated look in them. They stared at each other for a few seconds before he said, "I loved him."

Mary felt a chill go down her back. It was something she had known since John had first mentioned him to her, though what kind of love it was she had never been truly able to pin down. She slowly nodded.

"I know," she said. She took a deep breath and touched his face. "I want nothing more than your happiness, John. It hurts me to see you sad, and I know that you have been depressed every day without him." She kissed him and watched as his eyes fluttered shut. She savored every movement of his lips and felt tears well up in her eyes. She pulled away slightly. "I want you to do what's best for you," she said, her voice cracking. "No matter what kind of relationship that means you'll have with him, and... no matter where that leaves me. I never want to hold you back. Whatever you decide, I will support you."

He scrunched up his face again, fighting back tears. He shook his head. "You don't deserve this," he whispered. She pulled him close and they both cried.


	7. Preparing

**A/N**: Sorry for the slight delay. I'm posting two chapters at the same time, so be sure to read this one before the next one. Also, sorry in advance for the bit of a cliffhanger - I hope it doesn't get your hopes up, but I guess we'll see, yeah?

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

John woke up the next morning, stretched out on the sofa. He could smell bacon and eggs and he smiled briefly before memories of the night before came back to him.

Had it been a dream?

Surely to god, it had been a dream. There was no other way.

It wasn't uncommon for him to have dreams about Sherlock being alive, but they always ended with him jumping off buildings or taking a damn pill that burned through his throat on the way down, and John always jolted awake, panting and crying – similar to dreams about the war, really. But here he was, waking up calmly. And Sherlock hadn't faced his grisly end this time.

Bloody hell. Maybe it wasn't a dream.

He took a deep breath. He tried to consider himself and his emotions, the way the AA members had taught him to identify feelings, but he came up confused. He felt... well, angry, but not anything like the rage from the night before. And it was tinted with something, something, that made it bittersweet. Relief, maybe. Like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Sherlock wasn't dead.

He sat up, shook his head a bit to help him wake up, and walked into the kitchen. Mary was at the stove, tipping bacon onto a paper towel-lined plate. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck. She swayed against him and smiled gently.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning. How are you?"

"Better."

"I hoped a good sleep would help."

"Figure I'll text Lestrade, see what he's up to. If he isn't busy, I might head over there to talk to him."

"That sounds like a good idea, love." She turned in his arms and pecked him on the lips. "I'm sure Greg will have it covered, but if you need me, call and I will drop everything, alright?"

He kissed her and then nodded. He took a deep breath. "And to be clear, I - don't know what will happen..." He trailed off awkwardly.

"_Whatever_ you need, John." She locked eyes with him. "Whether it's with Greg or Sherlock, our relationship exists to help you thrive, not hold you back."

"Could you be more amazing?" His voice came across almost sad but she smiled at him.

"I'm amazing because I'm in love with you and you deserve nothing less. Remember that, my love." She pulled his phone out of her pocket and handed it to him.

He smiled his thanks but immediately felt nervous. His pulse increased as he sent a familiar text he hadn't sent to Lestrade in years.

"Are you busy?"

Despite himself he felt faintly, very faintly, aroused. He'd been conditioned those years ago to be turned on when sending or getting that text, since sex had followed ninety percent of the time, but he brushed off the feelings and went to the bathroom to take a quick shower. By the time he was finished, the answer had arrived.

"No."

That's all it used to take, four simple words, and then they'd be shagging. John wondered what Lestrade thought was going to happen.

He dressed, kissed Mary, and hailed a cab right outside that took him to Lestrade's flat. As he got out, he wondered if Sherlock was in there and he felt his face flush a bit. He took a few calming breaths and walked inside without knocking.

Lestrade was sitting alone in the living room, clearly waiting for him. John looked around carefully, making sure Sherlock wasn't lurking in a corner.

"I sent him out," said Lestrade.

"Why?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I honestly didn't want to risk you hitting him again. How are you?"

John sighed. "Better. I don't want to hit him again."

Lestrade smiled slightly. "Undoubtedly Mary's doing, yeah?"

"Of course. The logical one, balancing me out." John tried not to sound bitter – he loved how Mary could talk him down, but he wished he didn't need someone to reign in his emotions for him. "How are you doing?"

Lestrade nodded. "Pretty well, actually."

John felt a tinge of annoyance at that - Lestrade had been heartbroken by Sherlock's "death," so he should react the same way John did to his return. He tried to push aside those thoughts - they were irrational and wouldn't help anything. "Did he stay here last night?" he asked instead.

"Yes."

"Did you shag him?" Immediately, John regretted those words. They were far too bitter, said far too harshly. He mentally kicked himself and his lack of self-control.

Lestrade's eyes cut to him and John knew by the faint anger in them that he was hurt by the sarcastic question.

"I'm sorry," John muttered, ashamed.

"You're hurting, John, I understand," said Lestrade, though his maturity just made John feel worse. Lestrade stood up and stepped towards him. He touched John's arms. "What do you need from me?"

John leaned against him, rested his head on Lestrade's shoulder. He felt arms go around him and a hand run through his hair. Despite what he'd thought the day before, being in Lestrade's arms was still a safe, happy place. "I love you," John said, his lips brushing lightly against Lestrade's neck as he spoke. John immediately felt more relaxed, soothed by the nostalgia of their closeness and the phrase from years ago.

"I love you, too," said Lestrade slowly, his lips against John's ear. Without another thought, John pulled back and kissed him. Their lips moved perfectly together, John's eyes closed, and they pressed closely to each other. John's breath hitched and he started pushing Lestrade back toward the sofa. Lestrade sat down heavily and John straddled his hips, not breaking their kiss.

John unbuttoned Lestrade's shirt, stuck his hand inside to rub his chest. Lestrade's lips moved to John's neck and John moaned, grinding their hips together. Eventually, John moved to sit next to Lestrade and rubbed his crotch. John quickly undid his pants and dropped his mouth to Lestrade's erection, licking along the length before enveloping as much of it as he could. Lestrade massaged the back of John's neck, scratched his scalp, his breathing turned heavy. John lost himself in the movement, the bobbing of his head and the pressure from Lestrade's hand.

For a few minutes, nothing else existed.

Then Lestrade's phone beeped.

John looked up, brought back to the real world. The phone was on the table and he stared at it, his heart pounding so hard it hurt.

"John?" Lestrade breathed, concerned.

"Is that him?" John replied. "A text from him?"

"I - I don't know. We can ignore it if you want."

John was distinctly aware of Lestrade's cock inches from his face, close to a climax, but he sat back. Tears filled his eyes. "Check it, please."

Lestrade picked up the phone. "Yes. He wants to know if you're here." Lestrade typed for a moment and then tossed the phone to the other side of the sofa. He looked at John. "Are you okay?"

"Every time we shagged, back then," John said, his voice shaking, "I would have given anything, _anything_, to have been interrupted by a text from him."

Lestrade pulled him close and he started to cry. Lestrade kissed his face, his neck, his lips, comfortingly, and John managed to get control of himself.

"I - I want him, here. Can you tell him to come here?" John whispered.

"Of course." Lestrade kissed him again a few times before leaning over to get the phone. He sent a quick text and stood up, tucking himself back into his pants and zipping them up. He pulled John to his feet and embraced him.

"I shouldn't have hit him," John said, holding back a sob. "I wished, for three years, that he wouldn't be dead. Then it happened and I attacked him."

"He's okay, John, he understands." Lestrade rubbed his back. "And he'll be here soon, you can explain to him everything -"

The door to the flat opened and Sherlock Holmes stepped inside, looked rapidly around the room and froze with his eyes on the interlocking men.

They broke apart and Lestrade turned away from Sherlock to button his shirt. Sherlock glanced at the floor, embarrassed. His eye was dark and swollen, but the cut on his lip was barely noticeable.

"What, were you waiting on the front step?" asked Lestrade, annoyed, looking over his shoulder.

"Yes," said Sherlock, a bit of confusion in his voice. "You said I could come back."

"I wasn't expecting you to show up in a few seconds, was I?" snapped Lestrade, but he stopped as he looked at John and noticed the expression on his face. John was staring at Sherlock, pained.

John stumbled forward and collapsed in Sherlock's arms, sobbing. Mumbled apologies spilled from his lips and Sherlock was saying something too, something John couldn't shut up long enough to listen to but Sherlock didn't seem bothered by that. They held each other a long time, both clinging rather desperately together. When John finally managed to look up at his face, he saw tears shining in Sherlock's eyes. John sniffed, nodded bravely, and glanced back at where Lestrade had stood.

He wasn't there.

"He left," said Sherlock, his voice quiet. John looked back at him and they stared into each other's eyes. Then John kissed him.


	8. Mary and Lestrade

I'M POSTING THIS CHAPTER AT THE SAME TIME AS THE CHAPTER 7. If you haven't read chapter 7 yet, you should probably do that first. Just a warning.

**A/N**: We'll get back to Sherlock and John next chapter - sorry. I honestly wouldn't feel right posting this chapter as its own update, which is why it's being posted at the same time as 7, because John isn't in it. It's a different kind of chapter. But I like it, and I really want it to be included, so here it is. It's just Mary background and you get to see Mary and Lestrade's relationship.

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

"How do you do it?" Lestrade asked Mary as they sat down in Mary's living room. He'd called her as he left Sherlock and John in his flat and she'd invited him over. He needed someone to talk to, and who better? There was something about her that helped him open up - she was a bit like John in that way. "How do you handle it, knowing John's - with other people?"

Mary smiled gently. "I know he needs you, in addition to me. What kind of wife would I be if I denied him what he needs?"

"A normal one?"

Mary shook her finger at him. "Most men - and women - don't need extramarital relationships like the one John has with you. They want them, sure, but John wouldn't last without you. He literally needs your friendship, and I understand that sometimes that friendship is more."

"But how does that part not bother you?"

"I knew what your relationship was like before John and I were serious. If it had bothered me, I would have left him then. I very much believe that the people in someone's life affect who they are. I've never known him without you, and what if he'd be very different then? I love him the way he is, and _he is_ the way _he is_ because of his current relationships. Getting rid of you or changing your relationship could change him in a way I'd rather not risk. He never said it, but I knew there was a possibility that that side of the relationship would return, at some point. I don't have to tell you how much you've helped him - his history with you, the support you offer each other. It's beautiful. You're his best friend."

"Have you always felt like this?" Lestrade asked and quickly added: "I know it's none of my business. I'm just curious how someone learns to be so..."

Mary shrugged. "I'm an open book, Greg. I have no secrets anymore. I used to be the exact opposite, actually, about relationships. I expected men to drop everything for me. I expected them to make me happy, and when they didn't, I used alcohol to make me happy. You know how that worked out. At AA, I learned that no one is responsible for my happiness except me. I learned to look at what I needed from a relationship, what I needed John, or any man, to do rather than what I _didn't_ want him to do. He has to respect me. He has to be kind. He has to be dedicated to our relationship. And I realized that being dedicated to you doesn't mean he can't be dedicated to me. He's quite devoted to both of us, and he's able to do that. It's unreasonable to expect him to spend all his time with me - we both have jobs, we both have our own friends, we have different interests. How does it affect me what he does on his own time? As long as he isn't losing all our money or getting hurt or coming back to me angry, he deserves his freedom and I trust him to make good decisions."

Lestrade nodded slowly. "You said... people are affected by relationships they're in. I don't mean to overstep boundaries, but as a friend, are you worried about Sherlock being back?"

Mary sighed. "Yes. The John I love is post-Sherlock Holmes. I don't want him to be unhappy, but honestly his grief has helped us connect on significant levels, and I have no doubt that he will be a changed man now. Even if his grief stays, which is possible."

"Have you talked to him about it yet?"

"A bit. I've tried to be very clear on the matter. He should do what makes him happy. If he finds that being with Sherlock again is what he wants, if he no longer wants to be with me...well."

Lestrade winced. "You wouldn't...I don't know, fight for him?"

Mary widened her eyes. "No. He's an adult and he can make his own decisions. I would be heartbroken, of course I would be, but if he's going to be happier one way, I won't pressure him to be a different way. And it's possible I wouldn't mind sharing him with Sherlock. If that's what he wants, and if I can still get what I need from our relationship, who knows?"

Lestrade thought that over for a few moments. Mary sipped her tea.

"I'm not telling you this to invade his privacy, of course," added Mary, breaking the silence. "He has a right to that, but I want you to know where I stand, for reference. I consider you a friend and I don't want you to feel conflicted if you find out something is happening between them. I also don't want you to alter your relationship with him for me. I know you and John have talked about that a bit and I mentioned it earlier, but I want to be explicit on the matter: As long as he's happy, I'm happy."

Lestrade nodded. "You're an amazing woman. I'm glad John has you, he's truly earned that kind of...unconditional love. And selfishly, I'm glad you feel the way you do because _I_ need _him_ too."

Mary reached over and touched his hand. "How are you doing, Greg? Sherlock's return has to have affected you."

"It has. It's more weird than anything, honestly. I'm thrilled to have him back, I am. It's like a weight's been lifted, you know?"

"You don't sound thrilled."

Lestrade moved his head, granting her that observation. "I guess I'm worried."

"About?"

Lestrade shrugged and gave a small smile. "I'm afraid I'm not as much an open book as you are."

"I can keep confidences, Greg. I know better than most that talking about something can help. I promise not to tell John anything you say."

Lestrade took a deep breath, ran a hand through his hair. "I guess... I wish I were more like you."

"What do you mean?"

A faint blush tinted his cheeks and he avoided her eyes. "Between us, Mary. If John's relationship with Sherlock develops the way I think it will...I don't know what I'll do."

Mary's eyes widened. "You're in love with him too? With Sherlock?"

"Yeah. And three years ago, I would have been fine with their relationship developing any way they wanted. I've accepted that nothing can happen between Sherlock and me, I've known that all along. And in walked this John Watson fellow and Sher was clearly smitten even though he wouldn't admit it and I was happy for him. But I've been a Sherlock-replacement for John for the past three years. Sherlock was the original best friend, the original _exception_ to his _heterosexuality_, and now that he's back - I don't know where my place with either of them will be."

"You don't think your relationship with John is that fragile?"

"No, I think his relationship with Sherlock will be that powerful."

Mary looked for a moment like she wanted to cry. "What was your relationship like when he and Sherlock lived together?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Strictly professional. Nothing more or less. And I don't want it to go back to that, I don't think I could handle it. But I know that's what Sherlock will want, and John could easily fall into that with him."

"John loves you, you know he does."

"I don't doubt that, Mary," said Lestrade with a smile.

"You'll talk to him about it, then? I mean, give him some time to adjust to the changes, but then explain what you want. I'm afraid that's the only advice I have - John's a good man, and he wouldn't hurt you on purpose."

Lestrade nodded sadly and they finished their tea.

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

**A/N: Spoiler warning: This isn't a Johnlock fi****c.** I don't want people to get their hopes up (or down, whatever) for something that won't happen here. Relationships involved are as follows: Friends-with-benefits John/Lestrade; married John/Mary; queerplatonic-ish John/Sherlock, with a touch of romance but _no sex_; and strictly platonic Sherlock/Lestrade. That doesn't necessarily account for all the feelings between the characters, but it's how the relationships will work.


	9. John and Sherlock

**A/N**: I love Sherlock, but I don't particularly like writing him because I do a terrible job. So, I'm sorry if he seems OOC or anything along those lines - I'm going to brush it off, claiming he could have changed in the three years since we saw him on the show, so, there. Thanks for reading so far, hope you enjoy this chapter!

I repeat, not a Johnlock fic.

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

John Watson had rarely been able to surprise Sherlock Holmes, but he did with a kiss. John pressed his lips to Sherlock's, standing on his toes to reach and pulling Sherlock's face down to meet him and Sherlock froze. But not for long.

Recovering, Sherlock returned the kiss, wrapping his arms tighter around John and they moved together, a bit awkwardly but passionately. John let out a breathy moan and felt the tears start up again. He'd wanted this for so long. Sherlock's lips were cold but soft and there was something odd, unexpected, about the way they moved against his. After a few seconds, John pulled away, wanting to jump up and down and shout, wanting to curl up and cry, wanting to keep kissing Sherlock until it was physically impossible to continue, but something in Sherlock's eyes brought him crashing back to earth.

They stared at each other until John figured it out.

"Did - did you want to do that? Or did you just do it because I wanted it?" he asked suspiciously. He wished Sherlock's eyes would stop looking so pained and then wondered if it was now permanently part of the way his face looked.

Sherlock licked his lips and shook his head. "I don't know, John."

"Don't lie to me."

"It isn't a lie."

"You could tell me how much sleep I got last night and what side of my bedroom has a window, but you don't know if you want to kiss me or not?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

John took a deep breath, fighting his annoyance. "Okay," he said finally. "Okay, let's talk."

So they settled on Lestrade's sofa, next to each other but not touching. For twenty minutes, Sherlock talked about everything he'd done in the years apart, mostly solving cases under different names across the world. He'd stayed with Mycroft or in places Mycroft provided him most of the time. He talked about the whys and hows of his "death," how it had all worked and who had helped, including Molly Hooper's part in it. Mycroft hadn't betrayed him to Moriarty after all - it was all part of the plan.

Sherlock had checked on John every day. When he was able, he would personally find John and follow him for a while to make sure he was okay. When he wasn't able to do that, he had his people follow John or he'd get updates from Mycroft who had never lifted John's surveillance status.

"Did you make any friends?" John asked, hoping it sounded off-handed.

"Depends on your definition of 'friend,'" said Sherlock with a wave of his hand. "I've helped a lot of people, I have more people now that I can turn to when I need a favor. I've built up my network quite a bit." He paused. "But the last few years have been - lonely."

"Have they really? Because I think you've been kissing people." Sherlock's eyes cut to him, looking confused. John smiled grimly and continued: "You know how to kiss. There was something odd about it and I've only just figured out what it was - you're experienced. Far more experienced than I would have guessed, you knew what you were doing. You can't learn that from a book, Sherlock."

For a moment, Sherlock's eyes turned gleeful and the corners of his mouth twitched. He was impressed. He gave a short nod before swiping the emotion from his face. "Your deduction skills have improved."

"Who have you been kissing, then?"

Sherlock glanced around the room. "A person here or there. No one of any importance."

"Did you shag any of them?" John felt a touch of jealousy but his curiosity outweighed it tenfold. He was more interested in this than the cases Sherlock had been involved in.

"No."

"Did you _date_ any of them?"

Sherlock studied his face for a second before answering. "One. We were together on what some would refer to as a date twice."

John almost laughed. "Was... was this a woman or a man?"

"A woman." The way he said the word inexplicably called Irene Adler to mind, but John knew she'd been executed so he shook his head.

"Why this interest in kissing and dating? What changed?"

"A lot of things have changed, John. I was -" He stopped, avoiding John's eyes. Sherlock sighed. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter: "I'm not any more adept in regards to relationships, matters of the metaphysical heart, than when I left you years ago. I've tried some experiments, tried to learn what I can in order to improve myself, specifically in anticipation of - returning to you."

John felt a blush creep up his face. "And the results?"

"Negligible."

"I have trouble believing that. They had to have told you something."

"They told me I wasn't interested in pursuing relationships with any of those people. But that doesn't answer my original question."

"Which was?"

Sherlock finally looked at John again. "What kind of relationship I want with you."

A beat passed. "Did you not like what we had?"

"I did. But I wondered if there could be more to it."

"Do you want there to be more to it?"

"I told you, I don't know. Everyone assumed we had a different kind of relationship. People, you included, seek out those kinds of relationships."

"But you aren't interested in that kind of relationship."

"Correct. What if I'm not interested because I haven't put enough thought into it? What if I decided early in life that my time and energy would be better suited towards my work and therefore made myself thoroughly uninterested?"

John shrugged. "Even if that's the case, why challenge it?"

"Because of you. It wasn't long before I learned of your relationship with Lestrade. It was an easy leap to assume you were attracted to me, seeing as Lestrade was obviously a replacement you found for me. Then I was left with the question of whether or not I could be attracted to you."

John frowned. "Lestrade wasn't a replacement for you."

"Of course he was," said Sherlock, offhandedly, but he noticed the look on John's face and added, "Sorry. I don't mean that he still is. Whatever your relationship with him now, I'm sure it stands on its own. Regardless, I suspected that upon my return you would want a similar relationship with me so I sought to discover relevant things about myself."

John decided to let the topic of Lestrade drop for the moment. "Relevant things - like if you're gay?"

"Yes."

"And you weren't able to figure it out? Honestly, I've always assumed you were not attracted to anyone - asexual."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "That's a possibility," he muttered morosely.

"So, you aren't attracted to me. Seems like you answered your question," said John bitterly. He wasn't just hurt by that conclusion - he was frustrated. He'd forgotten how annoying Sherlock could be when he got in a mood, unrealistically expecting John to follow his train of thought, but it was all coming back to him. And he was angry for having gotten his hopes up by that kiss.

"Answered my question, perhaps, but I haven't solved my problem."

John closed his eyes momentarily, hoping for patience. "And what is your problem?"

"I want you."

"You just said you didn't want me."

"No, I said I didn't want to _shag_ you. For some reason, that's what everyone thinks it means, but I want to _be with_ you. Live with you, work with you. That's what I want, that's the most satisfying relationship it's possible for me to have, but _you_ need more from a relationship. You need physical intimacy, sex. I wondered if giving that to you might be enough, so you wouldn't look for another relationship, you'd stay with me. That's what I meant when I said I didn't know if I wanted to kiss you or not. I want conflicting things."

"Damn it, Sherlock," John muttered.

"It doesn't matter now, though. I was too slow. You're married and I - I wouldn't be a friend if I wanted you to leave her."

John sighed. "So. If we can't be flatmates and we can't work together, what do you want?"

"Why can't we work together?"

"I don't know that I want to go back to working with Greg. Things are too different now."

Sherlock looked rather like his spirit was broken by those words. He stared at the floor. "I don't know, John."

John remembered Mary's words from the night before. "We could try just being friends. Get together sometimes. Have a, er, _normal_ relationship."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Certainly, yes. I'm willing to try if you are. I'm sorry. For the kiss. I didn't mean to mislead you."

John shrugged. "I can't deny – well, being a bit disappointed, but even if you were interested in shagging me, it wouldn't work out. I couldn't do that to Mary. Or to Greg, for that matter."

Sherlock looked around, confused. "It isn't a problem of exclusivity, obviously. What would be the problem?"

John pursed his lips for a moment. "It'd be different with you. Mary knew about Greg from the start. She agreed to tolerate our relationship when she married me. Not to mention that the nature of the relationship would be different. Greg doesn't take much of my time away from Mary, he doesn't prove to be any kind of distraction, while you – you probably would." John felt a little embarrassed at the implication towards his true feelings for Sherlock, but he ignored it. There was no point being embarrassed now, Sherlock already knew everything.

"And why would Lestrade care?"

"What?"

"You said you couldn't 'do that to Greg,' why would he care? Those reasons about Mary don't apply to him, seeing as your relationship with him is closer to casual than committed."

John had to think for a moment about that before he realized where Sherlock had gotten lost. "No, Greg doesn't care who I'm with," he corrected him. He opened his mouth to continue, but stopped himself. It wasn't his place to tell Sherlock about Greg's feelings for him or the betrayal he was sure Lestrade would feel if John and Sherlock shagged. "Just... never mind, it doesn't matter."

Sherlock looked at him suspiciously. "Just what is your relationship with Lestrade? Has it been labeled?"

"He's my best friend," John said automatically and suddenly there was tension in the room. Sherlock took a deep breath, clearly stung. John stammered, "I mean, you – you've been gone so long. And he's been there for me, the whole time."

"I couldn't have expected to retain that title," Sherlock conceded quietly.

John thought briefly about saying that everyone knew Lestrade was John's best friend only because Sherlock was out of the picture, that Lestrade could have never won without Sherlock forfeiting the position in the first place, but decided against it when he remembered the comment earlier about Lestrade being a replacement for Sherlock. Instead, John continued answering the question.

"Just after you disappeared, we were sort of dating but we didn't call it that. That ended after, er, eight months or so. Since then, we've supported each other, however we needed at the time. Sometimes it's involved physical things – mostly just talking and drinking. He was the best man at my wedding."

Sherlock nodded. "He and Harry stood with you."

"Lestrade told you about it?"

"No," said Sherlock slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was there."

It took a moment for that to sink in. Then John felt goosebumps rise up on his arms and he stared at Sherlock, his lips slightly parted. "You were at my wedding?"

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world."

And John remembered that day, how he'd wished Sherlock would be there – he'd felt it hadn't been right without him. He had mentioned that to Lestrade, who answered, "He didn't like weddings, but you know he'd be here if he could."

Tears burned his eyes now, touched, and he was again struck by how weird it was that Sherlock wasn't dead. He reached over, took Sherlock's hand and squeezed it. He didn't know what to say. They sat in silence for over a minute, looking at each other. A part of John never wanted to stop looking at him, lest he disappear again. He hoped the black eye would go away soon - it didn't help his guilt.

Sherlock was the one who finally broke the silence. "Speaking of Greg, should we tell him he can return to his own flat?"

John grinned. "Probably."

"Anything else we need to talk about before we do?"

John shook his head. "I'm about all talked out for now. Are you going to be busy the next few days?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Lestrade and I are going to the Yard at some point, to talk about letting me join the force. He thinks he can get them to hire me on, officially, because he doesn't want to start breaking all the rules again. Other than that, not much planned."

"Okay. I want you to meet Mary. Properly, that is."

Sherlock glanced at him. He hesitated before nodding. "Okay." He pulled out his phone, sent a text, and they sat back to wait for Lestrade.


End file.
